


I Knew You'd Be Here

by TadpoleGlee



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:16:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TadpoleGlee/pseuds/TadpoleGlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One bright morning at the Harper Hall, the dragonriders came in Search.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Knew You'd Be Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Desiderii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desiderii/gifts).



> Have a wonderful Yuletide, Desiderii!
> 
>  
> 
> With many thanks to Morbane for her beta work.

It was early in the morning when the dragons came. The pair spiraled down out of the clear sky, taking their time in their descent into the courtyard of the Harper Hall. Robinton, crossing the courtyard from the apprentice dorms, sped up his pace to flatten himself against the wall without ever taking his eyes from the sky.

The dragons were already drawing attention, a welcoming crowd gathering at the far side of the courtyard, and Robinton was sure that someone, somewhere, was preparing hospitality for them. The bronze touched down first, folding his great wide wings in to make room for the smaller blue.

Robinton leaned casually against the wall as he thought to himself that there was a clutch of eggs on the Hatching Sands at Benden, and everyone knew that it was the blue dragons who were the best at Search. Could they have come on Search? Could they be looking for him?

The blue dragon, which had been looking calm and relaxed suddenly shifted, bringing that wedge shaped head round to stare straight at the spot where Robinton was standing. The bronze, his attention caught, also looked in that direction.

_Harper boy?_ and the voice was a familiar one.

“Cortath?” Robinton asked in surprise, worms of anticipation and worry starting to wriggle in his stomach.

_We did not forget you,_ and the dragon’s tone sounded, if anything, smug about this fact. The blue was slowly inching closer, his eyes whirling in pleased blue tones, just a shade darker than his hide. So far, none of those gathered to greet the dragons and their riders seemed to have noticed anything amiss, but Robinton wondered how long that would last. It was hard to miss a blue dragon moving, no matter how slow he seemed to be creeping.

Or maybe it was only his sense of time that was changing. For all of a sudden, there was a blue muzzle in front of him, and he was looking straight into one whirling eye. THe dragon inhaled, making Robinton’s clothes flutter, and then huffed the breath out.

“What?” the rider said from within the gathered group, loud enough to be audible from Robinton’s position, absently tilting his head to one side, breaking into the ongoing conversation.

_I said,_ and the blue’s mild tenor sounded peevish, _that this Harper Boy should stand._

_Wimith has never been wrong,_ Cortath said directly to Robinton. _You can talk to us. You listen to us. You should be at the Weyr._

Pride and dismay warred for ascendency in Robinton’s breast. This was all his dreams come true at once, and yet, it meant giving up so much else. He had dreamed of going  to the Weyr, of being Searched, of standing alongside Falloner and perhaps being chosen. He had dreamed of  finally have something that would make his father proud of him. But to go to the Weyr would mean leaving Merelan behind, and leaving behind his Harpering ambitions.

Wimith’s rider was making his way over to where Robinton stood, frozen in place by more than just the blue that was blocking his way. M’ridin walked with him, a broad smile on his face.

“This the lad, Wimith?” the blue rider asked his dragon, resting one hand on a neckridge.

_Yes,_ Wimith said, straight to the point.

“I thought it might be you, young Robinton,” M’ridin said pleasantly, echoed by a vocal warble from Cortath. “What say you?”

Robinton was spared from having to speak -indeed, he wasn’t sure that he would be able to, by the hurried arrival of Merelan and his father. Petiron was scowling, probably at the interruption to whatever he was teaching by the need to be hospitable, while Merelan was smiling brightly, although her eyes glittered. Robinton felt his heart lurch in his chest.

It was an honour to be Searched, not one to be refused, even if Petiron’s expression suggested that it was a disruption to the right and proper way of things, the way that Petiron approved of personally. And really, in his heart of hearts, did Robinton want to say no?

Harper trained, harper voiced, he still didn’t trust his throat in making the reply, and simply, shakily, bobbed his head in an affirmative. Merelan smiled broadly at him, her pleasure and delight clear on her face, even though her eyes still brimmed with unshed tears. Petiron, his scowl dissolving, was looking at Robinton, really looking, as if suddenly seeing his son for the first time.

“Move out of the way, Wimith,” the rider instructed his dragon, who obeyed, after another huffing breath at Robinton. “Go grab your stuff, candidate, we’ll be heading to the Weyr shortly.”

Robinton, abruptly unfrozen, took off at a run in the direction of his dorm room. He’d only pack a carisak of what he needed, he thought as he ran. He could get the rest sent, or collected later. Surely his mother would come and see him at the Hatching?

He packed a few changes of clothes, his pipe, and a few works in progress into a carisak. Not bothering about neatness, he fastened it securely and swung it over his shoulder. At the same full sprint, he took off back out towards the courtyard, his bundle jouncing against his shoulders blades. He was going to the Weyr!

Space had cleared in the time that he had been gone. His mother and father stood alone, hand in hand, both looking at the doorway as he emerged. The rest of the Harper Hall was giving them space, and the dragonriders were occupied with checking their straps. Robinton stopped dead, catching his breath, pressing one hand against the stitch in his side that was threatening to begin.

“Well,” Petiron said, his normally sure voice sounding unsure. “Well…”

Merelan was at no such loss for words, and stepped forward, catching Robinton in a tight embrace. “This was meant for you,” she whispered in his ear, quietly. She let him go, and studied his face as if to fix him in her memory, before pulling him in tight again.

Pain welled up in Robinton at the thought of parting from his mother, but the pride in her voice kept him from voicing anything. He would make her proud of him.

Petiron stepped forward as well, and rested one hand on Robinton’s shoulder It was not paternal, but Robinton, startled, fancied that there was some form of affection in the gesture.

“Candidate,” and M’ridin’s voice was not loud, but it was insistent, and required obedience. Reluctantly, Robinton disentangled himself from his mother, who seemed unwilling to let go. When he stepped away from her, his mother caught her breath in a sob, and clutched at his father’s hand.

Robinton backed away a few steps, drinking in the sight of his parents, in this moment joined together. Perhaps this was for the best. For all of them.

Cortath crouched as low as he was able as M’ridin assisted Robinton up to the seat between the neck ridges and made sure that the straps were securely fastened. Wimith, his rider already mounted, was closely supervising.

_You will see them again,_ Cortath said, and Robinton felt a reassuring rumble beneath him. _And they will meet your dragon._

Robinton raised his hand in farewell to the gathered Hall, as M’ridin gave the signal to lift. Cortath crouched and then sprang aloft, his wings opening wide. Wimith was only a breath behind. The Harper Hall fell away beneath them.

_We go to the Weyr._

 

\--------------------

 

Robinton’s heart thumped painfully against his ribs as they came out of the chill of between. Benden Weyr was beneath them, in all its double-cratered glory. Wimith peeled off, descending in a tight spiral to the leaders’ ledges, perhaps to make a report, while Cortath continued his leisurely descent towards the floor of the Bowl.

He was Searched, was to stand for the Hatching, and only now was the reality of it starting to sink into Robinton. To be sure, it had been sudden, and his throat still ached with unshed tears, but this was a dream come true.

Cortath touched down lightly, and M’ridin was unfastening the straps and sliding down.

“Thank you, Cortath,” Robinton said, half numbly, the practised courtesies coming easily.

_You are welcome, Candidate,_ Cortath replied as Robinton slid down the bronze’s side to land on the ground. M’ridin grinned at him.

“Let’s get you settled into the barracks, lad, and let you meet the rest of the candidates for the eggs.”

“Yes, sir,” Robinton replied.

“And get you a white knot,” the bronzerider added, leading the way.

 

\-----------------

 

The barracks for the candidates were much like a apprentice dorms, Robinton thought. Two rows of single beds, each with a locker set beside them for personal belongings. Glowbaskets gleamed from hollows in the walls, half shuttered since there was no one about. And much like the apprentice dorms, clutter lay around. Clothes had been discarded and left to lie where they fell, personal projects lay abandoned on the beds. M’ridin huffed under his breath at the mess, but led Robinton to an unoccupied cot, casually shifting the clutter to another bed.

“Right,” he said, opening the door of the locker, and pulling out the simple white knot that denoted Robinton’s new status.  Robinton found his hand hovering over his harper apprentice knot, reluctant to give up what he had worked so hard for, but in the end, he slid it free and offered it to the bronze rider, who tucked it away in a thigh pocket.

“I’ll keep it safe for you,” M’ridin said, helping Robinton fasten the new knot, making sure that it lay properly. “The other candidates should be in the kitchens, helping. Think you can find your way there?” and the tone was challenging.

Robinton raised his head. “Yes, sir,” he replied firmly.

“Good,” M’ridin replied, with a hearty buffet to Robinton’s shoulder, and by the time that Robinton regained his balance, the bronze rider was away.

Robinton slumped down to sit on the edge of the bed, his mind still reeling. It all seemed like a dream, or, he snorted, something out of one of the ballads. Swept up, carried off, installed in the weyr... He found his fingers tapping his thigh in an unconscious rhythm. There was probably a tune in that, but it wouldn’t do to be caught slacking so soon after his promotion to candidate. Time to find the kitchens.

It really wasn’t too hard to navigate through the weyr, not when he remembered routes and shortcuts from his previous time here, short though that had been. That, and he just followed his nose. It was getting close to the evening meal, and the weyrfolk were bustling around on errands and chores, too focused on their work to notice a lone candidate.

Even when Robinton entered the kitchens themselves, none of the cooks or the bakers seemed to notice him at all, except as another body to be avoided in their path. There were no signs of any other white-knotted candidates. Robinton hovered anxiously, not quite certain what to do.

“Rob!” came a joyful call out of the clouds of rising steam, and Falloner emerged, a tuber in one hand, knife in the other, and a broad smile spread across his face. He made to buffet Robinton on the shoulder with the knife-hand, checked himself, and then thumped Robinton with the tuber instead.

“Falloner,” Robinton replied, his own smile just as broad.

“Come on, they’ve got us on tuber duties. Cook catches us slacking, we’re in trouble,” and Falloner led the way into the clouds of steam, which Robinton discovered were coming from a large pot of water, boiling rapidly. Beyond the steam were a handful of white-knotted male candidates, all peeling tubers with varying degrees of efficiency. Falloner elbowed his way back into a space at the table, and poked the boy next to him until he moved aside, grumbling.

“You know everyone, Rob, don’t you? Rangul, Sellel, Lytonal, Jesken, Zaran and Tomas,” Falloner pointed to each boy in turn. Robinton nodded, recognising most of the names and committing the two unfamiliar ones to memory.

“This is Robinton,” Falloner continued. “M’ridin bring you in?”

“Yes,” Robinton replied, reaching for his own knife and tuber to peel. “And Wimith’s rider.”

Falloner grinned as broadly as if he had Searched Robinton himself, and then bent industriously to his work as a cook passed close by, scowling impartially at the gathered candidates. Once she was out of sight again, Falloner sidled closer to Robinton.

“S’loner wasn’t going to Search outside the Weyr. Said there were more than enough candidates in the Lower Caverns to do the twenty five eggs. Me, I talked him into going for you,” Falloner said in a hushed tone.

Somehow, Robinton doubted that even being the son of the Weyrleader would give Falloner that much power, but politely refrained from saying anything of the sort, instead muttering a “Thank you.”

“You believe,” Falloner said in a peculiar intense tone, and Robinton realised that he was talking about the return of Thread. “We need all the riders to believe.”

Robinton studied the tuber as if the secrets of the dragonriders would be revealed within. “They don’t?” he asked cautiously.

Falloner chuckled bitterly, an astonishing sound from someone so young. “Not by half. They don’t,” and he indicated the other candidates. “They don’t think Thread will ever fall again.”

Before Robinton could respond to this, a cook bustled over and began chiding them for how little work they had got done. Conversation ceased, and all candidates bent industriously to their peeling.

\----------------------

 

After the tubers had been peeled, the candidates were split up, and Robinton found himself fetching blackrock for the kitchen fires, and for the main hearth in the living caverns. After that, they were deemed too filthy for decent company and chivvied by one of the assistant headwomen into heading for the baths to get cleaned up.

By the time they were scrubbed to her standards, the sounds of the weyrfolk were loud and boisterous as they moved through the hallways, heading towards the smell of food. Robinton wondered how different the meal would be now he was a candidate, rather than an visitor, and an honoured one at that. He wondered idly if he’d still be asked to sing.

He had lost track of Falloner somewhere in the baths, but as soon as he stepped into the crowded caverns, his arm was caught and he was dragged in the direction of one of the tables, strands of wet hair flapping against his neck.

The table was in the corner of the room, well worn and well used. “Sit,” Falloner instructed, pushing Robinton’s shoulder. Robinton obeyed; it was that or end up with bruises. Falloner plonked himself down on Robinton’s right, and grandly conducted the other candidates into place.

“Already thinks he’s Weyrleader,” Lytonal muttered in passing, for Robinton’s ears only, but the tone was teasing, rather than spiteful. By the look on Rangul’s face, his thoughts weren’t quite so teasing.

“We get stuck out here so that we don’t disturb anyone if we get a little loud,” Sellel explained to Robinton as he took the seat on the left. “But we’re still close enough for the Weyrlingmaster to keep an eye on.”

He gestured towards the closest table, and a man sitting at the end, pointedly not looking in the direction of the candidates. Robinton hadn’t been introduced to the man last time he was here, and only knew him by name. T’rell was a stern-looking man, possibly in his forties, and looked like he would brook no messing about from the candidates. He reminded Robinton of Apprentice Shonagar, in a strange fashion.

Drudges and weyrfolk began to circulate, carrying out the platters and plates of food and setting them on the tables for everyone to serve themselves.

“What’ve we got tonight?” Falloner said as he half sat, craning his neck.

“Tubers,” Robinton said dryly.

“Apart from tubers,” Falloner said.

“Stew,” Lytonal said from across the table. “I heard Stolla chiding someone for not leaving the meat in large enough chunks.”

“Headwoman Stolla,” Rangul said stiffly.

“We have to call everyone by their titles,” Falloner said in an aside to Robinton. “As well as saluting every rider. Rank, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Robinton said, grateful that he hadn’t met anyone and messed up on his first day on candidacy.

“Did you get any of the rules?” Falloner checked, as one of the weyrfolk set down a plate of steaming fresh bread loaves.

“Only the ones that are in the songs,” Robinton replied, passing Sellel a loaf as he slid one onto his own plate.

Falloner’s eyes lit up with mischief, and out of the corner of his eye, Robinton caught Lytonal rolling his eyes.

“We’ll just have to educate you,” Falloner declared, grabbing his own loaf and making a hole in it with his thumbs.

“Make sure you know the way we do things in the Weyr,” Rangul added.

Robinton had a sinking feeling that this would go horribly wrong, but kept silent.

 

The stew was brought round in a large tureen, steaming hot and smelling delicious. Thick, dark gravy slopped over the edge of the ladle and splattered over the table as Falloner lifted it to scoop a generous helping into his makeshift bread dish.

He passed the ladle to Robinton, who scooped out his own share of stew with slightly more delicacy and fewer splashes. Thick chunks of meat floated alongside vegetables and the tubers that the candidates had painstakingly peeled. It smelled delicious as he poured it over the bread and watched the gravy soak in.

“So,” Falloner said as he tore free a scrap of bread with his fingers and popped it into his mouth. “The rules of being a Candidate at Benden Weyr.”

Robinton passed the ladle on to Sellel, and speared a hunk of meat with his knife. Better to receive instruction, however dubious, on a full stomach.

“First rule is, as you’ve heard, use everyone’s titles. As a candidate, everyone outranks you.” Falloner continued.

“And some of the riders deliberately come and find you to make sure that you’re paying attention,” Jesken added.

“Second rule, salute. Practise saluting,” Rangul chimed in.

Robinton nodded.

“Third, don’t let the Headwoman catch you putting your shoes on the floor. They sit on top of your dresser, or you’ll be doing punishment chores for the next sevenday.”

Across the table, with a mouthful of tuber, Lytonal shook his head at this last one. At least he had one ally in the new game, Robinton thought. While he wouldn’t go so far as to say that he trusted Lytonal to keep him right, it didn’t hurt to have a second opinion on some of these rules.

“Fourth,” Sellel chimed in. “If you’re talking to Weyrwoman Carola, keep your hands in your pockets, and look down at the floor.”

“Did they ever find out what happened to the baker who looked her in the eye?” Falloner asked in a calculated aside. Robinton didn’t need Lytonals direction to determine that rule was a fake.

“Fifth,” started Ruben, from further down the table. “Don’t use the fifth privvy from the left. There’s something living in it.”

Robinton filed that away in his mind as something vaguely plausible.

The stew was delicious, different from the ones back at the Harper Hall, but with the bread, it made for a very nice change. Concentrating on eating, Robinton let the list of rules wash over him, only half paying attention to them as they got sillier and sillier.

The stewpot was empty and only crumbs remaining on the plates, and still the other candidates carried on, listing the dos and don’ts that they thought Robinton should know. Lytonal had given up indicating which rule was real, and was trying to hide his laughter behind his hand as the sweetrolls were delivered.

In the middle of an animated discussion that was growing louder and louder, on which meat would be best to use to cover yourself in to escape from the monster that lived in the glow room, T’rell stood up, a looming figure. Robinton hastily swallowed the last bite of sweetroll, wiped his sticky fingers on his trousers, and saluted, followed by the rest of the candidates.

T’rell nodded a bland acknowledgement of the salute, and stood for a moment in silence, his keen eyes raking over the candidates.

“Since you have so much energy for loud discussions,” he said finally, “how about five laps of the Weyr Bowl, at a nice, brisk, walking pace.”

It was a command, not a question, and the candidates groaned their way to their feet.

 

\-------------------

 

Five laps turned into ten when one of the candidates wasn’t moving quick enough, and ten turned into fifteen when Carola noted (with a light of mischief in her eyes, Robinton noticed) that they still didn’t look tired enough. When they had been allowed to return to the barracks, fatigue claimed most of them, and it was into their cots and lights out, with very little chatter.

Robinton didn’t remember falling asleep, but he slowly woke up, feeling a humming deep in his bones, vibrating through his cot, and when he placed his hand on the wall next to him, it was gently thrumming too.

In the cot next to him, Falloner abruptly sat up, throwing the sheets from his body with an almost indecent amount of energy. Robinton, shuffling upright and yawning, saw the rest of the candidates, shapes in the gloom, starting to stir.

“That’s it, they’re hatching!” Falloner cried out.

“Indeed they are,” T’rell’s deep voice spoke from the doorway. “Out of your cots, get your robes on, and line up here. Move!”

It was this last word, bellowed, that got Robinton moving.

 

\----------------

  


The sands were scorching hot, even through the thick soles of his good boots. The white robe was uncomfortable, too long in the arm and tight across the shoulders, but the first sight of the clutch drove all discomfort out of Robinton’s mind and stole the breath from his lungs.

The clutch lay mottled and vibrating, shadowed by the gleaming, half open wings of Feyrith, who hovered anxiously. The gold egg lay at the forefront, and the two girls presented were huddled together in a shaking, pale mass.

Falloner nudged Robinton in the ribs. “You’d think they’d never seen a dragon before,” he said with a disdainful nod towards the girls.

“Not everyone is as sure of Impression as you,” Robinton said mildly, fairly certain that he was just as pale as the girls. Perhaps this was what stage fright felt like.

Falloner nudged him again. “You’ll Impress too, Rob, I’m sure.”

One of the shells shuddered, pieces beginning to flake away, and any reply melted away from Robinton’s lips as he focused all his attention on that one egg. It was rocking more urgently now and the shards were getting bigger, until a damp bronze head broke free.

Falloner grasped Robinton’s arm tightly, and hissed as the bronze broke free and sprawled on the sand. The girls edged away, closer to the slowly rocking gold egg, and Feyrith crooned reassuringly.

Another egg hatched suddenly, spilling a brown free in a tangle of wings and legs. Since being Searched, Robinton hadn’t given much thought to what colour he would Impress, but that brown looked sturdy.

The bronze gathered himself together as if to say he had meant to do that, and moved off towards the candidates at a steady, determined pace.

“He knows who he wants,” Falloner hissed again, his grip strong enough to leave bruises, but Robinton didn’t pry the clutching fingers free. Falloner was taking inching steps forward now, towards the bronze, and towing Robinton with him. Robinton was too focused on the little brown, who was rearranging his wings and legs, making sure that everything was neat and ordered. He was even trying to dislodge some of the egg moisture that still clung to his hide, although without much success.

Bronze hide flashed in Robinton’s vision, and abruptly Falloner’s grip went slack and he gasped, a strangled sob that turned into a name.

“Simanith!”

And Falloner was falling to his knees on the hot sand, arms reaching out to encircle the bronze who crooned happily, with jewel-faceted eyes gleaming brightly. Robinton, in that instant, was fervently ecstatic for his friend who had achieved his goal: his dream that he had been talking about ever since Robinton had met him.

An assistant weyrlingmaster was beckoning to Falloner, (or would that be F’ner or F’lon, now), and the newest bronze rider left with his lifemate, without a backwards glance.

“Larth!” called another voice, and Robinton turned as Lytonal was claimed by the little brown. Lytonal’s hands were deft as he removed the worst of the egg covering from the brown, reassuring him that yes, there would be food and bathing shortly. Joy, and a touch of jealousy, pooled in Robinton’s stomach.

None of the other eggs seemed to be in a great hurry to hatch, but the croon from the adult dragons didn’t seem to cease or ease. While exposed out on his own, Robinton felt no urge to merge in with the rest of the male candidates.

Out of nowhere, the gold egg shattered, sending sharp shards scattering over the sands. The little golden queen posed proudly in the wreckage of her egg, gleaming with health and unusually well rounded. She stepped daintily from the ruins, and turned to face the two candidates. Feyrith dipped her head and lightly touched muzzles with the little queen, dwarfing her.

Three eggs hatched as one, drawing Robinton’s attention. Another bronze, a green, and a blue this time.

That made six hatched out of the twenty five eggs, and two Impressions. Robinton tried not to shift from foot to foot as the heat from the Sands made his feet uncomfortable. The green and blue hatchlings were moving in tandem, away from Robinton and towards the clustered mass of boys that waited for their attention. The bronze was slower to move, setting a meandering course that could go any way. Finished with greeting her mother, the little gold turned her head around to gain a better view of the female candidates, giving what sounded to Robinton’s ears like a scornful sniff.

The green Impressed to a caverns lad that Robinton had barely met, and the blue was quick to follow suit, having tripped over his green sister to land at the feet of his choice. The bronze was temporarily obscured from Robinton’s vision as he staggered his way around a cluster of boys.

The gold queen was pacing steadily towards the girls, her head pointed forward, her eyes whirling red. One of the girls was edging backwards when faced with the reality of what was happening. The other was either too scared to move, or brave, Robinton wasn't sure which.

The gold extended her filmy wings and flapped them, raising a cloud of dust, then she charged forward, barrelling into the legs of the girl that was standing still, sending them both crashing to the ground. There was nothing malicious in the glorious cries from the gold, though.

“Nemorth!” the girl shouted, sitting up and hugging the little gold tight.

Laughter brushed the edges of Robinton’s mind, light tenor mixed with harp strings. Robinton shook his head and glanced around, looking to see which candidate had approached. Instead of another boy, though, he found himself looking straight into whirling blue eyes edged with red, and glossy bronze hide.

_Hello_ the tenor voice spoke straight into his mind, shy, almost cautious. With a shaking hand, Robinton reached out to touch the head of the little bronze that was looking right at him.

_I knew you'd be here for me,_ the little dragon said with a tinge of smugness. _I am Maleoth, and you are my R'ton._

“Yes.” R’ton replied dazedly, his mind filled with the echoes of that voice, and of the burr of the strings that hummed in a triumphant sound. It was a strange feeling, a mind joining with your own. It felt right, like best thing in the world. The love that R’ton could feel coming from Maleoth was incredible, and R’ton’s own heart soared to feel it. Here was someone who loved him as his mother loved him, here was someone who understood him down to the bone. Here was someone who would not judge him as his father did, who would accept him as his father did not.

And R’ton loved Maleoth for it.

He gently scratched the bronze hide, vaguely aware that other Impressions were going on, and that T'rell was beckoning him to come off the sands. But for the moment, there was nothing in his mind but Maleoth and their new bond.

_Food?_ Maleoth suggested, as R’ton’s stomach cramped. _Hatching is hard work._ He turned to look at the side of the sands. _Something over there smells good._

“All right,” R’ton agreed, coming out of his haze a little, enough to guide the little bronze towards the sidelines. As they moved, he couldn't help but admire the way that Maleoth's hide looked, still gleaming from the shell. He admired the smooth pacing of his dragon, the economy of motion. He could sense Maleoth's delight in the admiration, and his delight at picking such a bold and strong candidate.

They reached the cooler ground where the rest of the new riders were gathering. T’rell clapped R’ton on the shoulder, and with a bit of pressure, pushed him towards a bucket.

“First one’s prepared for you, rider,” and R’ton grinned at the reminder of his new status. “But you’ve got to prepare the rest yourself. Feed him slowly, don’t let him choke,” and with that instruction, T’rell headed off to speak with the newest gold rider.

Maleoth stuck his muzzle over the edge of the bucket, and inhaled deeply. R’ton shifted the head aside so that he could reach in and grab a handful of the neatly cubed meat. It was warm and sticky against his palm.

_That smells delicious,_ Maleoth commented, as R’ton offered him the first chunk. _Tastes good, too._

R’ton didn’t need to ration the meat out: his bronze was neat and careful, taking each morsel in turn and chewing thoroughly. The hunger pains in R’ton’s stomach were just about sated when his ears rang from a joyful yell.

“Rob!”

Fallloner’s face  was wreathed in an ear-to-ear smile as he approached.

“Falloner!” R’ton returned, just as joyously.

“F’lon now,” F’lon told him, “And Simanith.”

“R’ton,” R’ton said proudly. “And this is Maleoth.”

_He is nice,_ Maleoth said, as he accepted another morsel of meat.

“You’ve picked a good lad there,” F’lon said to Maleoth.

It didn’t take long for the hungry dragon to empty the bucket, and by the time R’ton’s fingers were scraping the bottom, the rest of the eggs had hatched, and the wobbly new hatchlings were all gathered at the side, under the watchful eyes of T’rell and his helpers.

The candidates who didn’t impress were being consoled by Carola and S’loner, and R’ton spared a brief moment to feel sorry for them.

_Their dragons haven’t hatched yet, Maleoth said simply. Chendith tells me so. Don’t feel sad._

“How can I be sad, when you found me?” R’ton asked quietly, once more touching his dragon as if to prove to his senses that this was real.

 

\--------------------

 

The weyrling barracks were just off the hatching grounds, for ease of access for the young dragons. Simanith trundled along sleepily, his eyes already partly lidded as he ambled beside F’lon. Maleoth looked more awake, but R’ton could feel the sleepiness in his lifemate’s mind.

“We’ll get them settled, and then go out to the Hatching Feast,” F’lon explained to R’ton. “Show ourselves off to our parents.”

R’ton felt a pang. His parents wouldn’t be there at the Feast: there probably hadn’t been time to bring them, and Petiron probably wouldn’t have come anyway. “I might just stay here with Maleoth,” he suggested.

For all his enthusiasm, and brusqueness, F’lon understood. So too, did Maleoth.

_When we can fly, we can go and see your mother. I would like to meet her._

“I’ll bring you back something to eat.”

The barracks were wide and spacious, empty of occupancy. Each weyrling had their own stone couch with a bed beside, already neatly made. At the far end of the room was a large table, scarred with knife marks, and with what looked like a bite mark on one of the legs. Arranged on the opposite side of the wall to the beds were two large containers. A board hung to one side, empty of writing. Probably for lessons, R’ton surmised.

As the gold rider, Jora had a side room all to herself, where she and Nemorth could have peace and quiet, at least until she moved to a weyr proper. To stop any arguments, T’rell assigned each weyrling to a cot and couch, mixing up the colours. R’ton was beside L’tol and Larth, and a blue rider.

“Up you go, Akath,” the blue rider urged his dragon, as the little sky blue clambered up onto the couch, and flopped over with a sigh. R’ton grinned, and offered a hand for Maleoth to use as a stepping stone. The bronze clambered up and crouched in the depression in the stone, unfurling his wings and letting them droop.

Already, some of the new riders were leaving the barracks, heading for the Hatching Feast, or possibly Hatching Breakfast. R’ton simply sat on the edge of the couch, his eyes running over Maleoth over and over again, fixing his dragon into his mind. Maleoth contentedly watched him, his mental harp strings humming with happiness.

R’ton was jolted out of his distraction when L’tol moved to one of the containers, and moved the lid with a scraping noise. It didn’t disturb any of the sleeping dragons, but it made R’ton jump. Larth, who had followed his rider, cheeped quietly but happily.

From behind the container, L’tol brought out a bucket, and dipped it into the container. Water, R’ton realised.

“Would you like a wash, Maleoth?” R’ton asked.

_I think I would like that,_ Maleoth said after a moment’s thought.

R’ton slid off the couch, and moved over to where L'tol had got the bucket. The newest brown rider grinned at them as they passed each other, but mindful of the sleeping dragons, he didn't speak.

The buckets were stacked neatly behind the water container, and it was the work of a minute to fill one, and locate one of the brushes that had been kindly left for them. Out of curiosity, R’ton shifted the lid off the other container, and an almost sweet smell wafted up to his nose. Oil.

Underfoot, the floor was sloped, and scored with drainage lines. R’ton set the bucket down at the edge of one of the lines, and beckoned to Maleoth. Larth was already in position and leaning into the scrubbing brush, eyes whirling bright in the semi-dark with his pleasure.

The brushes were soft, perfect for just-hatched hide, and the water must have been heated from below as it was a comfortable temperature for hide and for hand. Robinton took his time, caressing more than cleaning, learning the contours of his dragon. Maleoth simply lay there and hummed his pleasure at R’ton.

There was slightly more of Maleoth to wash than Larth, so L’tol finished up first and headed for the oil container. R’ton was concerned with making sure that he cleaned the wings properly, and didn’t realise that L’tol was coming his way, until a oil bucket was set next to him.

Silently, L’tol grinned at him, and then returned to his own dragon’s side.

_My R’ton,_ Maleoth said sleepily, as R’ton set his brush aside, and dipped one hand into the oil.

By the time that R’ton was finished oiling the bronze, he was nearly asleep on his feet, dragged that way by the tiredness in his young dragon’s mind. He helped Maleoth up onto the couch again, and was amused by the way that the bronze dropped straight into sleep, mental harp strings winking out into silence.

R’ton settled himself on his cot. His Maleoth. He stretched out, and one hand fell from the side of the cot to just graze the little bronze. His.

With that last thought, R‘ton fell asleep.


End file.
